


Inked

by PoppyAlexander



Series: Johnlock ficlets [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, M/M, Sherlock's Secret Tattoo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-07
Updated: 2015-12-07
Packaged: 2018-05-05 10:00:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5371133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What the hell is that?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inked

"Jesus, Sherlock!"

Enormous tarantula hands pin his arse almost painfully against the kitchen worktop's edge, and John braces himself with his palms half-wrapping around it; the dishtowel is still in his hand.

" _Mmmm_ issed you."

One arm still in the sleeve of his coat, his rolling case abandoned on the landing, flat door left hanging open behind him, Sherlock nuzzles his face hard into the crease at John's hip, inhaling desperately, exhaling a near-moan.

John sucks his teeth, draws one hand forward to thread his fingers through Sherlock's hair (it wants trimming; John won't remind him because it's lovely). Sherlock's forward pressure with hands and chin and forehead and nose and forearms is relentless; John is pinned, claustrophobic and trapped and with a slight thrill of fight-or-flight instinct lighting him up, making his heart race and his eyes widen.

Sherlock growls, tugs at John's belt buckle, catches the top edge of John's trousers-pocket between his teeth and pulls, pushes, huffs.

"Never again," Sherlock rumbles, more threat than promise. "Never again so long without you." The trousers' button protests and is left hanged as punishment for resisting. John thrusts a hand down as Sherlock yanks the zip, protecting Sherlock's set-upon prey from almost certain, careless damage.

"Easy!"

" _Mm_." A scolding grumble, nearly a complaint.

Sherlock sopping his palm and fingertips with his wide, flat tongue is the single most revolting and arousing vision John has ever had the pleasant misfortune to witness. He wants to see it never again forever, keeps it near the top of the Go-To Wank Visualisations file.

John wriggles his pelvis uselessly, seeking to free himself from this 'lock-and-a-hard-place vice. Sherlock has yanked his fly aside, tugged the waistband of his boxers down just below his bollocks (no wasted motion, no expense of extra energy, Holmesian efficiency as applied to oral sodomy in the kitchen), and he is muttering unintelligibly--John would swear angrily--into the fabric over John's hernia-surgery scar as his spit-slicked palm urges John's prick to full attention.

As ever, John surrenders to Sherlock's bottomless, spiraling  _need_  (it is not a surrender he ever struggles against for long; what principle is defended by saying "no" to one whose tepid bathwater he would gladly sip from a chipped china saucer?), slips a hand along Sherlock's jaw to tilt his chin up.  _Let me look at you. . ._

Shark-like gaze, predatory, desperate-- _jesus, Sherlock!_ \--pale lips parted, drying to crack beneath the wash of his breath, which is hot, gusting, audible. John's thumb traces the lower lip, pushes in, and Sherlock sucks, and John gasps, and John slides, tugs, draws, drops.

"What the hell is that?"

Sherlock's cheshire-cat smile curls itself into existence, but takes a sudden detour as he pouts that biteable lower lip out and down, and it would be obscene if John weren't so distracted by what it reveals. He rests the tip of his thumb there in the center, presses down, down, down.

Slashes of dark indigo, unmistakably Sherlock's own chemistry-student-precise block printing, inside Sherlock's lip.

_**JOHN** _

"I told you once I wanted you in my mouth,  _always_." Sherlock's voice a purr of rolling thunder. "To be able to taste you,  _always_."

John's gut clenches desire perilously near the point of exquisite, agonised expression, and he runs the pad of his thumb inside Sherlock's lip, deforming it outward, his name in Sherlock's mouth so much more than its humble origin, its four simple letters, its no-nonsense, staid steadfastness.

Sherlock's mad grin a threat to devour him, Sherlock's tongue rolling out to wet that perfect lip, that crazymaking lip,  _jesus Sherlock, that lip of yours_ , and all at once John's name in purple-black ink embedded in the tender, blood-pink meat inside Sherlock's lip vanishes beneath the crown of his cock, and Sherlock hums a moan that sounds like nothing in particular but feels just like, " _John_."

**Author's Note:**

> That line about the trousers' button left hanging as punishment for resisting is one of my absolute favourite lines I have ever written.
> 
> My Sherlock's-secret-tattoo headcanon is sacred to me, second only to my Sherlock-doesn't-wear-underwear headcanon. Fight me.


End file.
